What if the only way the heart feels at home is when you are there?
What if there are tattered bits and pieces of her scattered here and there?
Endless thoughts and commotion,
Endless wrong doings; irony- fingers are just in one direction.
Sanity makes no sense,
The struggles- none seemed to have sensed its presence,
Words have started to loose essence,
She is curling inside her; people- they are nothing but pretence.
Those precious pearls lost in the way,
Lost is their story and will always stay.
Voices- muffled and are hushed down,
She is but not more than a clown.
Heart here and soul there,
That which she would call her ‘Safe Home’,
An illusion or a safe home is even there?
Is a safe home even there?